


Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [15]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, Lack of Communication, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7900072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phasma was everything Unamo wasn’t. She was tall—taller even than most of her ‘troopers—with shining blonde hair and stunning skin, each of which reflected the light much like her prized armor. Her biceps were easily twice the size of Unamo’s, and when she fought and sweat and screamed as she did— Unamo had to swallow at the sight of her, both on the mats and off. Phasma was gorgeous, dazzling, beautiful and violent and perfect. Unamo wasn’t envious, exactly, she was—<em>covetous</em>.</p><p>(Or, the one where Phasma and Unamo are very much in love and don't know it's reciprocated.)</p><p>(Or, the one where Unamo loses her moniker "the boring one".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr prompt from an anon: "Write something sweet and shippy about Captain Phasma and Chief Petty Officer Unamo." I hope I delivered!!

Unamo had a reputation: she was boring.

She kept her hair short, her uniform pressed, and her quarters impeccable. She obeyed commands, did her job, and shared just enough about herself for her colleagues to understand that she was a drone who’d managed to land a plum position on the _Finalizer_. Rumors—the type of which always flew when female officers were involved—said that she’d fucked her way up. She was pretty enough to draw that sort of attention, though none of the bridge crew had ever seen her reciprocate or even notice flirtation, not that there was much time for it. When alpha shift ended and beta shift began, she took off. According to Mitaka, Unamo had regularly scheduled meetings with Captain Phasma to observe and report on stormtrooper training.

And it was true, after a fashion. Unamo _did_ observe the ‘troopers, and their meetings were regularly scheduled. Mitaka didn’t know the half of it, though, and she had no intention of telling.

Unamo had a reputation, and she guarded it fiercely.

* * *

At the beginning of beta shift, Unamo could usually be seen heading toward the service elevators and away from the officers’ section of the _Finalizer_. She walked quickly and purposefully, and no one questioned her.

The elevators put her out on the training floors: room after room dedicated to the sole purpose of molding stormtroopers into lethal fighters. Most of the rooms were dedicated to sims, the kinds used at Arkanis to train officers and modified for the needs of a stormtrooper. A few were regular practice rooms, with spaces to spar and mats on the floor worn thin from use.

Even without each room’s officer access history, Unamo always knew that Phasma could be found in the one with the loudest shouting. Unamo slipped into that room—today a standard practice room—and stood by the door. She observed the ‘troopers as they grappled with each other, making notes on her datapad that likely would never be read, but mostly, she watched Phasma.

Phasma stood proud in her armor, that shining chrome that caught the unforgiving overhead light and threw it back in the face of anyone who dared stare for too long. (Unamo thought she might go blind as a result.) Phasma’s cape stood stark against it, dark and soft and a reminder: _I am more than a Captain. I am a conqueror_. Her hands remained behind her back for the duration of the training module as she, too, watched her ‘troopers fight and grow as warriors. She critiqued their every move, and slowly but surely, the ‘troopers improved.

It was difficult to tell with the helmet, but Unamo knew: when she arrived, Phasma didn’t so much as look at her. Unamo was replaceable in their arrangement; Phasma could have anyone she pleased, and for the moment, it pleased her to _meet_ with Unamo. She had made peace with that a long time ago.

Unamo took notes until the module ended. Phasma, like the General or Ren, was more important than Unamo, and her schedule was markedly different; rather than the standard alpha/beta/gamma shifts, she followed something that Unamo sometimes suspected she made up as she went along. Unamo had no proof, but the end of any given ‘trooper module seemed to be determined largely by Phasma’s discretion and nothing else.

Lately, they’d been ending not long after Unamo arrived—just long enough for her to get a few notes, but not long enough that she grew bored of watching as she had early on, when Phasma had dragged the sessions out and worked the ‘troopers to the bone.

Today was slightly different. Unamo hardly had time to assume her position in the training room on the edge of a fraying mat to watch Phasma guide her ‘troopers through a fight before Phasma had them finish their drills. She dismissed the squadron, and they filed past Unamo two by two. They stank of sweat and determination. Unamo paid them little mind, though. Instead, she stared at Phasma.

“Captain Phasma,” Unamo said when Phasma reached her side.

“Chief,” Phasma said. She opened the door, and Unamo followed her. They took a different elevator, one that took them up past the lesser officers’ quarters (where Unamo’s own could be found) and up to Phasma’s. Up there, the only ones who stood to spot them were a handful of Colonels, the General, and Ren. In all of the time that Unamo and Phasma had made the trip, they had never seen anyone at all.

Phasma escorted Unamo into her room and stood in front of the door as Unamo stepped inside. As soon as they were assured of privacy, Phasma began to methodically shed her armor. Her helmet came off first, always, and then the rest of it from bottom to top. Unamo stared openly as Phasma stripped.

Phasma was everything Unamo wasn’t. She was tall—taller even than most of her ‘troopers—with shining blonde hair and stunning skin, each of which reflected the light much like her prized armor. Her biceps were easily twice the size of Unamo’s, and when she fought and sweat and screamed as she did— Unamo had to swallow at the sight of her, both on the mats and off. Phasma was gorgeous, dazzling, beautiful and violent and _perfect_. Unamo wasn’t envious, exactly, she was— _covetous_.

“Well?” Phasma asked, standing tall, the last bits of her chestplate removed. Unamo’s mouth watered at the sight of her, but it wasn’t the time to touch.

Slowly, Unamo mirrored what Phasma had done. Off came her uniform, folded neatly in a pile on a shelf she strongly suspected Phasma had requisitioned just for these sorts of visits. She slid off her boots and set them at the foot of it, and when she was finished—never bold enough to look at Phasma as she stripped, or to make any pretenses of her own attractiveness, which she found negligible—Unamo turned toward Phasma, eyes on the floor.

Phasma never failed to sweep her off of her feet—literally. Phasma looped one of those strong arms around her middle and brought her up so that they were of a height. Their lips met, first in a chaste if hard press, then in a mess of tongues as Unamo melted against Phasma. Their legs tangled as Phasma guided them backwards. With her hand wrapped around Unamo’s back, Unamo didn’t fall onto the bed so much as go slowly down, Phasma flush against her everywhere. Phasma was sticky with sweat from her time in her armor and overheated with desire, and Unamo could not get enough of it.

She moaned, openmouthed and trembling, as Phasma brought her lips to her neck and sucked, her hands roving over Unamo’s body. Unamo held Phasma there, fingers snagging in that lovely hair, and scraped across her back, looking for some kind of purchase. She could never find it, though; Phasma intended to devour her whole, and Unamo loved every instant of it.

Phasma never stayed in one place for long, either, and one moan was never enough to satisfy her need to hear Unamo’s pleasure. She used her fingers and her mouth and a few items that made Unamo blush to see, to say nothing of how they were used on her. Unamo would scream and thrash against her before the end of their time together, Phasma’s name a constant and fervent prayer on her lips, and only then would Phasma be satisfied.

* * *

They lay together after, Phasma holding Unamo close as if she were something prized and important. Unamo was never so happy as she was in those moments. Most of the time, Unamo yawned, or Phasma received a notification from the General that she was needed for something when her “meeting” with Unamo was finished—Phasma had explained to her that the General knew what it was they did and that he approved, though the First Order would always come first, something Unamo understood. Those times, Unamo or Phasma or both would dress and go their respective ways.

Today was not one of those days. Unamo was tired but she didn’t want to leave the safe and warm embrace of Phasma, and there was no one calling for the Captain to manage some crisis. There was nothing pressing to take them away from one another.

Instead, Phasma said, “Thank you.” She pressed her lips to the top of Unamo’s head.

Unamo stiffened, confused, and Phasma’s arms went lax around her. Unamo sat up to find Phasma looking away.

“It’s all right,” Phasma said. “You can leave.”

Unamo sat very still, stricken. Slowly and without saying another word, she moved to gather her things. Sure, she’d never been as good at _pleasuring_ as Phasma was, but she thought she’d done passably well. To be dismissed in such a manner…

Unamo dressed, her fingers tingling with a numb feeling that was rapidly spreading to the rest of her limbs. She’d failed. She’d be replaced with someone else—prettier, no doubt, someone who’d learn from Unamo’s mistakes, whatever those had been. Whoever took her spot would want to know what had gone wrong; Unamo was obligated to find out so that Phasma wouldn’t be disappointed again.

“Before I leave,” Unamo said, staring at her boots, “may I ask what it is I’ve done wrong?”

“Wrong?” Phasma echoed. Unamo waited for the reprimand. _Everything. You’ve done everything wrong, you worthless_ — “What would you have done wrong?”

Unamo looked up to find Phasma staring at her. “You’ve never sent me away before,” Unamo said softly. “If I’ve done something to displease you—”

Phasma jumped up off of the bed, coming to tower over Unamo. Unamo struggled not to stare at her body—a body she’d held close mere moments ago, a body which she wanted to worship in every way imaginable. Phasma grasped her chin in one hand, keeping a grip on her as she looked down at her.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Phasma said, speaking softly. “But you need not stay out of pity.”

“Pity?” Unamo asked. Phasma remained silent. “I don’t understand.”

Phasma’s eyes bore into her own. Unamo could have pulled away—Phasma’s grip was feather-light—but it felt so good, she had no desire to move. It struck her that these might be the last touches she would ever receive from Phasma, and she wanted to make them last.

“You wanted to stay,” Phasma said, as if there had ever been a question.

Unamo flushed. “Of course I want to stay,” she said. “You…” She swallowed, finally tearing her gaze away. It didn’t help, not when Phasma’s fingers were as brands on the underside of her chin.

“Oh,” Phasma said.

“Forgive me,” Unamo said. “I understood when we began that I was meant to serve as an outlet and that any feelings—”

Phasma swiftly silenced Unamo with a bruising kiss, the fingers at Unamo’s chin coming around to hold her by the hair such that she could do nothing more than tilt her head back and comply.

“You were,” Phasma said, peppering Unamo wish kisses, “ _are_ —so much—more than— _an outlet_. Stay. Stay. Please.”

“Why would I,” Unamo said between kisses, “want to leave?”

Phasma pulled her forward such that Unamo knelt above her on the bed. Phasma sat back and pulled Unamo down with her.

“I thought,” Phasma said, “you humored me.”

“Humored you?”

“That you pitied me,” Phasma said, petting Unamo’s spine. She shivered under the touch.

Unamo hummed as Phasma’s hands swept up and down her body, caressing her sides. “I thought— _ah_.”

“You mentioned,” Phasma said, “an outlet.”

“That, yes.” Unamo couldn’t keep the quiver out of her voice. “Thought you might have—others. As distractions.”

Phasma flipped them. “No others,” she said. “No one else. I wanted you, and I took you, and now, I’m keeping you,” she said, “if I may.”

“You may, if I can keep you, too.”

Phasma growled and leaned down to Unamo’s throat—no, to the space just behind her ear, far above the height of any uniform collar. She hesitated, waiting.

“Do you want this?” she asked.

Unamo arched to meet her. “ _Yes_ ,” she panted. “Yes, yes—”

“Mine,” Phasma spoke into the skin as she bruised it, no doubt leaving a massive mark. “ _Mine_.”

“Yours,” Unamo whimpered. She scratched Phasma’s back, digging her nails in, and added, softly, “Mine.”

Phasma keened, low and pleased, and kissed Unamo until she saw stars.

* * *

Unamo had a reputation for being boring.

That went positively out the window when she appeared for alpha shift sporting a rumpled uniform, poorly combed hair, and a massive hickey visible above her collar. Word would be around the _Finalizer_ long before the shift ended, she thought as she sat at her terminal.

It hardly mattered. Phasma had held her throughout gamma shift, had kissed her before they went their separate ways, had promised her—Unamo flushed, for Phasma had promised her so many things, _rash_ things, things that set her stomach aflutter. Then again, so had Unamo. In just a few scant hours, they’d imagined futures with each other.

All they needed was to win against the Resistance and the New Republic, and then they would have all of the time in the galaxy.


End file.
